


dynamite and whiplash (kill me with your favourite weapon)

by shatteredhourglass



Series: so, you're an angel [1]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Angel Clint Barton, Angel Wings, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Clint Barton Goes On A Trip, Demon Natasha Romanov, Feels, First Kiss, Identity Issues, M/M, Minor Steve Rogers/Natasha Romanov, POV Clint Barton, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Telepathy, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:47:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21543220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatteredhourglass/pseuds/shatteredhourglass
Summary: The footage goes crackly then and Clint swears, but the static doesn’t do anything to mask the way the air shimmers and a pair of huge, silver-tipped white wings fan out from the Soldier’s back as he jumps.Clint’s breath catches and the longing hits him so hard he nearly crashes the plane.God, that’s- that’s something, alright.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Series: so, you're an angel [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1552612
Comments: 74
Kudos: 341
Collections: Winterhawk Bingo





	dynamite and whiplash (kill me with your favourite weapon)

Clint’s out in Alaska when he gets the message.

It’s _freezing_ here. The cold winds in tight around his bones and he registers it faintly, doesn’t pay much heed until his fingers start going blue. He swears quietly when he realizes he’s forgotten to bring gloves, sits on his hands instead. He’s been sent out to get rid of a particular arms dealer, and while he’s not a huge fan of assassination work there’s no reason for him to turn it down.

Considering he’s on top of a snow-covered hill with nothing underneath, sitting on his hands just means they get colder. Clint sighs to himself and thinks about Florida. Maybe he can bribe someone at SHIELD into sending him to Australia next time. The outback would be sweltering this time of year. Even better, there would be kangaroos.

No, surely kangaroos don’t survive in the outback. Lizards? Maybe lizards. Clint likes lizards.

The chime in his hearing aids make him jump and he recognizes the sound as the one programmed to alert him for his phone. He scrabbles for the duffel bag next to him and pulls out the SHIELD-issue cell. The screen is dark, and when he pokes it there aren’t any notifications on it. Strange. The chime sounds again and he blinks when nothing happens again.

The third chime makes him realize something is wrong.

Clint watches the truck with the target pull up and he drops his phone into the bag again, fumbles for an arrow with fingers that are fading from blue to an angry-looking pink. He nearly misses the faint pressure in his skull, and then there’s another presence edging on his mind.

_You’re safe?_

_Not really,_ he replies, pushes the words back to the source of the presence. _Still on-mission. What’s wrong, Nat?_

 _SHIELD is Hydra,_ Natasha answers, and there’s an undercurrent of anger, of betrayal in her voice. _They’ve been Hydra the whole time. Did you- of course you didn’t, why am I asking. How many people know where you are?_

The immediate trust makes a smile appear on his face. He raises up from his sitting position on legs that don’t quite want to obey him, keeps his eyes on the man that’s waving his arms around alarmingly. He’s yelling, Clint thinks, although it can’t be heard from this distance. He doesn’t need to know what the man’s saying, especially when he starts pointing at the spot Clint had been told to stay in during the position.

The position he’d moved from five hours ago, luckily, and as they all pull out their guns and turn towards the spot, Clint lets his arrow fly.

 _I’ll be back as soon as I can,_ he says to Natasha as the arrow pierces the throat of the man in charge. Natasha doesn’t reply, but the worry seeps through to him anyway. Clint wishes, for a moment, that he could get there in a day. Less, even. He can’t afford to think about that now, though, as there’s more chaos from the group and he shoots the next man.

It doesn’t take long to pick the rest of them off, and he stares blankly at the corpses for a few minutes before he leaves his bag where it is and starts moving, swearing quietly to himself as he realizes his motorcycle and hotel room are both issued by Alexander Pierce. Shit, shit, fuck. One day he’ll get through a week without something going wrong, but it isn’t this week.

He thinks about hitchhiking and vetoes the idea immediately, kicks at a rock grumpily and spits out a curse as his toes start throbbing.

There’s going to be more coming for him, especially if they know about him and Natasha.

_It’s the Winter Soldier,_ is the next time he hears from Natasha.

Clint’s in South Dakota, trying to figure out where this tiny private airport is so he can hijack a plane. He trusts Steve with Natasha, he does, and Nat’s perfectly capable of keeping herself safe besides, but he’s itching to get back to her. Some kind of misplaced nesting instinct, a weird urge to drape himself over her and wrap her up close. He tries to ignore it.

The Winter Soldier is bad news. He gestures at the waitress to pay for his meal, downs the mug of coffee he’s got in one long swallow. When he sets it on the grimy diner table a group of teenage girls are looking at him with barely-concealed disgust. Clint refrains from throwing something at their heads. He’s got better things to do - namely, going to fight off the fucking Winter Soldier.

_Are you safe?_

_I’m fine,_ Natasha replies. _A little shaken._

Clint remembers the time she’d been shot by this man. She’d been _livid_ , absolutely enraged that she’d been beaten so easily. She’d also been shaken, though, and Clint had been ready to go with her once she got out of hospital to fight the guy. Natasha doesn’t sound angry this time, however. Just unsettled.

He asks a man on the street for directions and the haphazard pointing he gets don’t help him whatsoever. Oh well. He heads down the street that looks the least crowded, hopes that there’s a sign along the way. Clint can still feel Natasha’s presence in his head, doesn’t push and just keeps looking for the elusive airport.

He doesn’t find a sign, but he _does_ find a helpful elderly woman who offers to take him to the gate.

He half-expects her to turn into a Hydra agent. Instead, she offers him a butterscotch candy and blasts AC/DC the whole ride, which makes him comfortable enough that he doesn’t put a gun to her head while she drives. On the contrary, it’s so comforting that he nearly falls asleep along the way.

He thanks her with a wad of ten dollar notes, which she refuses, and ends up with an entire bag of butterscotch candies instead. It’s weird enough that he doesn’t question it. The candies are pretty delicious, and the airport is unguarded.

Clint’s back itches.

 _The Winter Soldier,_ Natasha says.

_What about him? Does he have a nice hat now, or like. Go-Go boots?_

Clint spots a battered-looking biplane and sighs with relief. It’s not like he has any luggage, so it doesn’t matter how horrifically cramped the aircraft is. He can do this. It probably has enough fuel for him to get a few states over, at least. He just needs to get somewhat close to DC and then he can get ahold of a contact for a decent jet.

 _He’s like us,_ Natasha says finally. _Like you, specifically._ _Somehow._

 _That’s not possible,_ Clint says before he can stop himself.

 _Apparently it is,_ comes the reply.

He hacks into SHIELD’s surveillance footage on a phone he stole from the old woman with the butterscotch. It’s just an old Android with barely a signal, but he gets it working anyway. If Natasha was here she’d be scolding him for using the phone while piloting. However, she’s _not_ here so she can’t stop him from pulling up the Helicarrier footage and panning until he finds a shadowy figure in the firey ruins.

There’s no sound, but Clint balances the phone on his bent knee and keeps an eye on the glass cracking, Steve falling. He must be okay - Natasha would’ve been distraught if she’d lost her boy, so Clint doesn’t pay a lot of heed to that.

Instead he looks at the man wrapped in black leather and blood. The Soldier doesn’t look like the most deadly assassin of the century. He looks _panicked_ and _distraught_ , even though the footage is blurry from smoke and damage. Clint’s eyes stay fixed on the screen as the Soldier holds his own blood-covered hand up to his face and stares at it for a few long seconds.

Something explodes to the left and the Soldier glances at it, then steps towards the spot where the glass has shattered. The footage goes crackly then and Clint swears, but the static doesn’t do anything to mask the way the air shimmers and a pair of huge, silver-tipped white wings fan out from the Soldier’s back as he jumps.

Clint’s breath catches and the longing hits him so hard he nearly crashes the plane.

God, that’s- that’s something, alright.

He nearly bowls Natasha over when he enters the hospital.

She steps out of his path in one neat move, grabs his wrist in one deceptively strong hand and guides him over to the side, wrinkling her nose at the state of him. Clint sighs. He _knows_ , okay. He came from buttfuck, Alaska. There wasn’t _time_ to get a shower on the way or even stick his head under a tap, not when he needed to get here as fast as possible.

Natasha seems to think otherwise. “Did you come from the garbage?”

“Sure,” he says. “That’s me. Clint Barton, garbage man. It’s not like I was on-mission when you called, nearly got _murdered_ because it was an ambush, and then sped here because my best friend, the light of my life, my heart and soul, was in trouble.”

She just rolls her eyes and shoves him towards the showers.

There’s a man in there, but one look from Natasha and he’s escaping as quickly as possible. Clint lets her shove him into a stall and steal his jacket. It’s clear he’s not getting anywhere until he looks somewhat like a person again, so he tosses the rest of his clothes out onto the tiles and turns the water on.

Thank god for waterproof hearing aids, because he can hold a conversation while he’s under the spray. “Steve’s okay?”

“Asleep upstairs. Sam Wilson’s with him - I’ll introduce you two at some point, you’ll like him. Anyway, he’ll recover,” Natasha answers. “He’s too stubborn to die, even if he let the Winter Soldier nearly beat him there.”

“The Soldier stopped, though. All on his own, by the looks of the footage,” Clint says thoughtfully. 

“He did. Steve thinks he’s Bucky Barnes and that Hydra’s been keeping him alive with their cryotechnology for the last seventy years. That’s why he wouldn’t fight back.”

“What do _you_ think?”

“ _I_ think that somehow they managed to trap an angel in James Barnes’ corpse and kept it under control as their own pet assassin,” Natasha replies. “I couldn’t find their files on it - Zola tried to blow Steve and I up before I could get my hands on any details, but that’s my guess.”

Clint makes a noncommittal hum of acknowledgement, sniffs the soap that’s sitting there. Lavender. Ew. He’s pretty sure he’s going to smell like a body in a ditch if he doesn’t commit to showering, though, so he resigns himself to smelling like someone’s grandmother.

He doesn’t really want to think about Natasha’s hypothesis. It makes him want to sit in the corner on the cold tiles and curl up into a ball. Clint would actually be very happy if Natasha was wrong but she rarely is, so he’s going to have to admit there’s a possibility that it’s exactly what she’s guessing. It’s just as likely as an immortal Bucky Barnes, he supposes.

The water goes cold and he squawks indignantly, slaps off the taps.

A towel hits him in the head. Clint dries himself off silently, thinks about things he doesn’t really _want_ to think about. There’s only one thing he can do now, and it’s not to hang out with the Avengers while Steve recovers from his beatdown.

“They’re going to start looking for him once Steve’s awake,” Natasha says as she hands him a pair of jeans. Clint hopes they’re his and she’s brought them along because she has foresight, but they’re too clean to have come from his wardrobe. She stares him down and he puts them on anyway. “Steve’s obsessed with the idea of getting Bucky Barnes back.”

“You want me to get there first,” Clint answers. “Figure him out.”

“I want to make sure Steve doesn’t get any more hurt than he already is,” Natasha corrects, folds her arms over her chest. There’s a dangerous flicker of gold in the green of her eyes and Clint doesn’t mention it, just grabs for the shirt she’s holding.

“I thought with SHIELD being down I’d catch a fucking _break_ ,” he grumbles.

She pats him on the shoulder. “I packed a bag for you, and there’s a rental truck outside. Security cameras last show him on the coast of Florida.”

“Great,” Clint says dryly. “Thanks.”

“At least you get to enjoy the beach,” she reasons.

It’s not that helpful.

Florida _sucks_.

No it doesn’t. He’s just tired and stressed and every time he closes his eyes, he sees white feathers and hears wings beating in his ears. It doesn’t matter if he takes out his hearing aids, it’s still plaguing him. Clint wants to stay in his motel bed for the rest of his existence. He wants to hide. He wants to cry, a little bit, but he won’t let the last one happen any more than the others.

He asks around a few places for the Soldier, describes him as a leather-clad embodiment of the murder glare, a homeless-looking version of Blaine from Hot Tub Time Machine. He explains to one girl that he’s the Terminator but short and emo, gets a blank look in return. Too young for that reference, maybe. Clint realizes with some horror that he’s getting old by human standards.

“I’m sorry,” the bartender says. “I haven’t seen him around here.”

“Great,” Clint replies, lets his face fall forward onto the bar with a thunk. It doesn’t hurt, but he groans for the dramatics anyway. Cold glass brushes against the back of his fingers and he takes the beer bottle, raises it in a silent thanks.

The bartender leaves him alone to dwell and he wonders what Natasha would have found on those files. Nothing good, to be certain, but Clint’s not sure he _wants_ to know what happened or who the Winter Soldier is underneath the murder. Still, he owes Natasha his life and Natasha wants to protect Steve, so he’s going to hunt down and find the man.

It’s not at all because of the steadily-growing anticipation bubbling under his skin. No, that’s mostly being squashed by the weight of the dread he’s feeling.

His phone beeps in his pocket and he slides it out, reads the new text by Natasha. They’ve gone back to messaging properly now there’s no emergency. Clint vastly prefers it - the other way gives him a crushing headache and he’s exhausted already.

Natasha’s text is nearly-incomprehensible code - she’s in Manhattan. Steve’s recovering at the Tower with Tony and Sam Wilson is hunting for the Soldier on his own with their direction. Clint’s not as worried as he could be. Steve would be a lot harder to outrun than Sam, so this is one of the best outcomes he can hope for. Especially because Natasha’s misdirecting him from her position.

Her next tip sends him to Finland.

It’s fucking _freezing_.

Clint despises the idea of prayer nowadays, but he’s certainly hoping that if he doesn’t find the Soldier here, Natasha will send him someplace warm again. It’s starting to look like the man doesn’t want to be found and honestly Clint can’t blame him for it. Hydra would’ve given him the skills to remain anonymous and despite the skills of half the Avengers looking for him, Clint doesn’t have a doubt he’ll remain missing as long as he wants to stay missing.

Still, when Natasha texts him with the next so-called Winter Soldier sighting in Lithuania, he goes, because he’s an idiot and he does idiotic things.

He’s saved that footage from the burning Helicarrier and sent it to this new phone. He stares at it every single day, looks at the soft flex of feathers and steel and tries to pretend he doesn’t want anything to do with it. He’s scared, he’s dumb, he wants to see and feel and _touch_. He’s not going to acknowledge any of those things.

They’re not going to find the Winter Soldier like this.

Clint is going to treat this like a really terrible holiday if it kills him, which it probably will. 

“Steve’s asking where you are,” Natasha says. “He’s worried, after what happened with SHIELD and Loki before that. He’s a worrywart. I think I saw him praying after he got out of the hospital.”

“I would’ve pegged him as an atheist,” Clint replies honestly, switches the phone to his other hand as he signals to the driver with a sign labeled _Clink Carton_. Eh, close enough. At least it’s not _Clit Baton_ \- that was a really bad week for him. “Hey, yeah, let’s head to the hotel. I’ll pay you extra to grab some coffee and a shitty burger on the way.”

He waits until he’s in the back with the divide between him and the driver to keep talking. “Does Steve know he’s praying with a demon watching his back?”

“Of course he doesn’t. Have you told him that angels can’t hear his prayers?”

“...no,” Clint says, and his voice comes out petulant. He has a comeback, though. “I’m not the one crushing on him, though.”

Natasha is silent for a minute. Clint expects her to tell him to fuck off, because he’d deserve it for that particular comment. Instead he’s left with the sound of the streets in Cairns as he tries to squirm out of his hoodie and flannel. Fuck, it’s hot. He’s tired of the weather changing - it’s only changing because he’s been in five different countries in the last two months, but he’s choosing to blame the weather.

“Do you think it’d bother him?”

She sounds uncharacteristically nervous, and Clint hadn’t realized this thing she had for Steve was so serious. Or that Natasha would _ever_ be worried about where she comes from, because Natasha’s always been unapologetic about being herself. Clint’s never cared about her background, but Clint isn’t an old-school Brooklyn Catholic.

“I don’t know,” he says honestly. “Are you going to tell him?”

“I’ve already lied to him so much,” she answers. “My whole life here is a lie. Maybe for once I just want to be honest. With myself _and_ with Steve.”

“I hope it works out,” Clint replies. He means it, too. She deserves something nice, and Steve Rogers is certainly a nice thing - Clint’s _seen_ that ass close-up, it’s something _real_ nice.

“I hope so too,” Natasha says.

Now he’s thinking about Steve and Natasha getting together. Dating, even. Natasha’s the only person that Clint even talks to regularly anymore. Kate’s been gone on her detective business with the dog for months. SHIELD is gone and he never really liked Fury all that much anyway. Tony is fine but all the spending makes Clint’s penniless brain break out in hives. Where does all this leave him?

Instead of facing the ball of fear in the pit of his stomach, he changes the subject. “So where in this town did you say our target was?”

“I didn’t,” Natasha says blandly. “There’s nothing new and I figured you could use a break. I was going to pay for a five-star hotel with all the works and a personal masseuse and then I realized that kind of luxury would be wasted on you, so instead I paid for a dumpy hotel that’s right next to a family-run pizzeria. There’s Netflix on the television and a ferry to take you to one of the beaches on Wednesday.”

It’s her way of saying thank you. Clint valiantly refuses to cry. “Nat, we should get married, I’m never going to find anyone more perfect than you.”

“You definitely won’t,” she says primly. “But no thanks. I’ve got a supersoldier to snag.”

“I love you,” he says.

“And I love you. Don’t get sent to the emergency room for overeating.”

The dreams still plague him.

He takes the holiday, because he’s not one to turn down gifts and also the pizza is really, _really_ good. But he still rolls into bed at two in the morning and curls up in his underwear - the Australian summer doesn’t fuck around, pajamas are out - and he’s feeling the ghost sensation of feathers on his skin, the absence of feeling so many minds crowding around his that he buries his face in a pillow and tries not to scream.

Clint had thought he’d gotten over this fifty years ago. Turns out that he’s _not_ over it, never will be, and the memories fight back with a vengeance, so he turns to doing normal tourist stuff instead of haunting his hotel room.

The rainforest cable car is _boring_. He shares the car with a couple of teenagers. One particularly spiky-haired teen has a mouthful of bubblegum and the popping noise makes him flinch a little every time. Clint starts unconsciously muttering the lyrics to Cell Block Tango and only stops when the girl next to him laughs as he gets to _you pop that gum one more time_.

He goes to a bar and a woman with thick, ass-length braids buys him a few drinks. The cocktails are almost luminous and bright eye-searingly purple and he’s fascinated enough to accept more than one. He doesn’t even realize she’s flirting with him until she suggests they go somewhere ‘ _more fun_ ,’ like her bedroom. Clint’s more interested in more pizza and the next episode of _Nailed It_ , though, so he declines.

As he’s laying there with a beer balanced on his stomach he realizes he’s getting boring.

Even _Natasha_ is getting a life, and if that’s not a sign he needs to do more than shoot arrows at people for a living, he doesn’t know what is.

“That’s a big fucking lizard,” Clint says. He’s not sure if it’s poisonous or deadly or whatever, because Australia, so he hasn’t moved an inch from the spot he froze in when he first noticed it.

The lizard flicks out its tongue and Clint starts planning his funeral arrangements.

“Sure is, mate,” a passerby agrees. “Monitor lizard. Big blighter.”

Clint’s so genuinely baffled by the concept of Australians actually saying _mate in real life_ that he doesn’t even notice the lizard walking away and into the bushes. When he stops staring at the man walking down the path he lets out a sigh of relief and turns around to head back to the beach, which doesn’t work because there’s another lizard _right behind him_ , an inch away from touching his ankle.

Being a tourist here is terrible. He takes all of his declarations of love to Natasha back. This is a hellscape disguised as a holiday destination and he wants his apartment back.

Then again, if he goes home then he has to watch Nat and Steve flirt with each other. Or even worse, do that thing they both do with their eyes.

It’s a nicer idea to just spread his raggedy towel out on the sand and lie down. He stole Katie’s purple aviators back in June, so those protect his eyes from the sun as he sprawls out comfortably and hopes no one notices his lack of sunscreen. It’s not like he needs it, not really, although he should be putting on the act.

It’s oddly relaxing, even with the children screaming a few meters away and a man talking very loudly and very angrily about the latest Star Trek movie. Clint lets it all filter out of his head and closes his eyes, trailing his hands through the strangely smooth sand. It almost feels like there’s something safe here, something comforting, and he doesn’t realize he’s falling asleep before it’s too late and he’s walled in by his own unconscious mind.

He dreams of the screech of metal, of bloodstains on pure white feathers and falling, reaching out in a snow-covered landscape for rescue that doesn’t come. Some of it comes from his memories but there’s things that don’t fit - a train, screaming in a voice that isn’t his - and that’s what makes him realize it’s a dream. He still keeps falling, unable to stop the memories anymore than he could stop it happening in real life.

Clint hits the ground with a sickening _thud_ and jerks awake, the same as he always does.

He sits up, breathing hard and fast from the panic and he’s still lying on the beach, although the sky is more black than blue now. Shit, he’s missed the fucking boat. Why didn’t anyone wake him up? Now he’s going to have to either swim back to the mainland or spend the night with the lizards. He doesn’t even have proper _pants_.

Weirdly, it’s the longest he’s slept for years. Clint scrubs a hand over his face and tries to shove the lingering feel of feathers from his mind. He doesn’t even notice the figure sitting on the sand next to him until a few minutes later, and then he’s just regretting not bringing his bow along.

The man has a hood pulled over his head, but it doesn’t hide the familiar angle of his jaw or the glint of metal between his glove and the sleeve of his jacket. Clint wants to be nervous. Instead he’s mildly horrified at the amount of layers the guy is wearing. Can he feel the temperature at all, being what he is? Clint doesn’t remember. It doesn’t matter.

Apparently the Winter Soldier has decided he wants to be found after all. “Can you kill me some other time? I was trying to get a tan.”

The Soldier turns and fixes him with a faintly displeased look. He doesn’t say anything, though, and Clint’s so puzzled by this turn of events that he doesn’t immediately run for it. To be fair, he’s sure he wouldn’t get very far if the Soldier didn’t want him to go, and he’s supposed to be finding the man.

“You were in Romania,” Clint says.

He’s acknowledged with a jerky nod but the Soldier doesn’t deign to answer the unspoken question. He was in Romania, so Clint was in Romania, and then Clint was sent to the east coast of Australia instead, and then the Winter Soldier is here. Was he here _first_ as some weird twist by Natasha or is he following Clint, now that Clint’s not following him?

The Soldier turns back to stare at the beach and Clint tries not to stare at him. Yeah, he’s shockingly pretty for a murdering angel, but now really isn’t the time for Clint’s sex drive to come back and play. His hair’s gotten longer since the Helicarrier, and he’s started conditioning it or something because it’s falling in soft wavy wisps around his face.

“You’re like me,” the Soldier says without taking his eyes off the ocean.

Well, that answers that. He’s definitely here because of Clint. Not that Clint had ever doubted Natasha - he never does, which is funny considering what she is - but still.

“Yeah,” Clint agrees.

They sit in silence for another moment.

“So you’re an angel then,” Clint says. “Not Bucky Barnes.”

The Soldier looks conflicted. “I was hoping _you_ could tell me what I am.”

Clint bursts into laughter and the Soldier’s expression becomes amusingly affronted, like no one’s ever had the balls to laugh at him before. Considering his reputation, they probably haven’t. Clint’s never had a sense of self-preservation, though, so he keeps laughing until his chest starts to hurt and then he tries to collect himself enough to answer.

“You don’t know,” he says. “How do you not _know_?”

“I _think_ I’m - that man. Bucky Barnes,” the Soldier says. “I remembered the man on the bridge. Steve.”

Huh. That’s interesting. But - “Bucky Barnes was a mortal,” Clint answers. “He was born in Brooklyn in 1917. There’s no way he could’ve been what we - what _you_ are.”

“But I remember it,” the Soldier insists, and Clint isn’t equipped to deal with someone _else’s_ identity crisis. He’s been having an ongoing identity crisis since they created the goddamn calendar. “I remember how it _felt_.”

Clint doesn’t know what to do with that. He wants to go back to his hotel room. He wants to go back to sleep. How did the Soldier even _get_ on the island? “How did you get here?”

The Soldier’s shoulders flex briefly and he stretches, and Clint’s- he can’t handle seeing them. “Okay, okay, you - alright, I don’t need a demonstration. Have you seen a boat anywhere?”

Clint types in his phone password.

The Soldier seems invested in what’s happening on the television and doesn’t look back as Clint turns it over in his hands nervously. He should tell someone. He should call Natasha, send a message or a code or something in case this all goes wrong. If the Soldier decides to backslide into his old assassin ways - well, Clint could definitely _survive_ it, but it’s unnecessarily difficult.

Someone on the show starts crying about their cake falling apart and the Soldier snorts quietly to himself. “Cake’s fuckin’ raw,” he mutters, and his voice is pure Brooklyn.

He puts his phone down and turns his attention back to the television. They watch in relative silence, because Clint has too many questions and he still doesn’t know if he wants the answers to them. The Soldier doesn’t say anything either, but his reasons could be anything.

The episode finishes and in the credits the Soldier turns and looks at him directly. His eyes aren’t the right shade of blue, Clint notices faintly. They’re too washed-out, closer to grey in this lighting than anything else.

The Soldier chews at his lip for a few seconds before speaking. “You weren’t ever a - a human being?”

That’s a loaded question. “Not really?”

“How old are you?”

“Too old,” Clint says blandly. “If I was mortal I wouldn’t even be dust anymore.”

Sometimes his bones _do_ feel like dust. The Soldier mulls that over for a moment. Even as Bucky Barnes, technically _he’s_ older than he should be as well. Clint’s not even sure that Steve ages either, if that’s part of the supersoldier serum making them something _more_ than human.

“Is it a bad thing? You don’t seem that overjoyed about it,” the Soldier says. “Your files don’t mention it at all. I’ve been watching you for weeks and you always act like a… like a person.”

“Maybe the humans act like _me_ ,” Clint answers petulantly. He’s purposefully avoiding the question and he knows it.

The Winter Soldier absolutely knows it, based on the way he starts chewing at his lip again. It’s distracting. His mouth is distracting. Now is _not_ the time. There will never be a right time to be attracted to this man. He reaches for a pizza box to distract him from the distraction.

There’s no pizza left and he sighs. “Aw.”

“Do we need to eat?”

“I don’t,” Clint replies, stretches out so he can snag another box. This one has a cold slice of pepperoni in it and he crams most of the pizza into his mouth in one go. The Soldier watches him with an expression that says he can’t decide whether to be disgusted or amused, and Clint makes a point of chewing before he swallows. “Dunno ‘bout you. Prob’ly not.”

The Soldier frowns. “Should I… do it anyway?”

“That’s your choice,” Clint says. Shit, he’s out of episodes of Nailed It. Onto something else, he supposes. He switches to the free-to-air channels and finds the Food Network, where there’s a Cutthroat Kitchen marathon going. Sweet.

“They didn’t let me make choices,” comes the reply and it makes Clint’s brain hurt. He’s cursed to remember everything and that includes Loki, the cold fingers caressing his cheek. The pet names and whispers in his ear, being called _my pretty little angel_ and being forced to like it. 

“Well, no one’s stopping you now,” he reasons, grabs for the dessert menu. “How do you feel about lava cakes and icecream?”

If he’s going to deal with this, he’s going to need a _lot_ of chocolate.

He wakes up in the morning - weirdly well-rested again despite seeing a train and screaming again, how about that - and the Soldier hasn’t left. Clint blinks blearily at the dark shape standing on the balcony and rolls onto his back. His elbow lands in pizza grease. A sigh escapes him. Maybe he can bribe the Soldier into asking less questions with more cake.

At least the Soldier can’t talk to him when his hearing aids are out and his eyes are closed.

Clint lays there in relative peace until he feels the tentative nudge at the corners of his mind.

 _I know you’re not asleep,_ the Soldier says.

“Okay, buddy,” Clint replies out loud without bothering to open his eyes. “I’m not asleep. You got me, great job. Your observational skills are second to none, no wonder you’re the most successful assassin of the century.”

 _Fuck off,_ comes the abrupt reply.

Clint holds his breath so he doesn’t laugh because fucking hell, the guy can’t have a personality under everything else. It further cements his conviction that the Soldier isn’t a _real_ angel, though, because there’s no way that they’d say that in any circumstance, not unless things changed a _lot_.

The mattress dips under a new weight and he blinks his eyes open to the Soldier’s face being _way_ too close to his. Clint inhales a little shakily on reflex, gets a noseful of oddly nice-smelling deodorant and tilts his head to the side so they’re not inches away from kissing. It takes him a lot of effort, especially when the Soldier’s looking at him like that.

Huh. Maybe his eyes are blue enough after all.

_What are you doing here?_

“I’m taking a holiday from chasing you around,” Clint mutters. Maintaining eye contact with the Winter Soldier is _intense_. “It’s not like you were making it easy for me. I was taking a break.”

 _You wanted to find me._ The Soldier sounds dubious. _Why do you seem unhappy?_

“I was finding you because my best friend needed me to and I owe her my life. It’s just a lot.” He’s got to look away, then, fixes his gaze on the ceiling instead. “That you’re actually here and you’re _real_ , and you’re- you know.”

The Soldier makes that face again, the face that makes Clint think that he’s going to ask a question that Clint doesn’t want to answer. The logical, sensible thing to do would be to ask him to stop, maybe to tell him that there are things he’s not comfortable talking about just yet, because it’d open sluggishly healing wounds. Because he’s neither logical nor sensible, instead he just slaps a hand over the Soldier’s mouth despite the fact he’s been talking telepathically for the last ten minutes.

It’s like being electrocuted.

_“Oh, James, can you get your sister ready for school? Steve’s going to be here soon and knowing Sarah, she hasn’t fed her boy enough, so I’m going to make some extra. Did you fix Rebecca’s hair?”_

It only lasts for a split second as they stare wide-eyed at each other, and then there’s just the warmth of the Soldier’s skin and the thrum of _something_ in the air as the Soldier’s wings snap into reality. Clint’s suddenly touching feathers all up his arms where they’re draping over both of them like a blanket and he’s frozen.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Clint breathes before he can help himself.

They’re definitely real, then.

The Soldier doesn’t move from where he’s leaning over Clint and Clint doesn’t move either, so he’s stuck under the soft weight of the wings. They’re weightier than the ones Clint remembers, and there’s a cold brush of steel against his fingertips where some of the feathers end that shouldn’t be there. Oh, god. Oh _god_ , he doesn’t know what to do about this.

They’re so _soft_.

Clint’s not sure he’s breathing anymore. He must make a noise of some sort, though, because the Soldier blinks slowly like he’s a little dumbfounded and moves back. Clint’s stuck between telling him to stop and asking him to move to Iceland or somewhere equally distant, as far away as he can get, or begging him to get closer again.

The wings flex, tucking neatly behind the Soldier’s back as he sits up. They’re too big to fit comfortably, and the primaries are curved against the sheets, the razor-sharp steel cutting lines into the sheets. They’re actually slightly grey at the edges, now that Clint’s staring. It doesn’t fit with the haphazard clothes he’s got piled on, or the unshaved jaw.

They’re beautiful.

_Are you alright?_

“Sure,” Clint says, hopes it doesn’t come out as dazed as he’s feeling. He scrabbles for his hearing aids and none-too gently pushes the presence out of his head, ignoring the part that’s still itching for more. “I’m. I’m okay. Hey, have you seen the butterfly sanctuary yet?”

They go to the butterfly sanctuary.

Clint has no idea what the Soldier’s motives are anymore. He hadn’t really understood the first night, either, but he’s realizing just how little he really knows as he watches the Soldier. Clint’s sat himself on a grassy hill and it gives him the perfect view of the Soldier down below, crouching next to a sobbing child.

Wherever the kid’s parent is, they’re nowhere to be found here, and Clint feels a faint flicker of fear as the Soldier reaches for something in his jacket. The kid’s stopped crying to stare curiously at the Soldier with wide eyes and Clint’s got to get down there _immediately._ If something goes wrong it’s his fault for bringing them here. _Why_ did he pick a place where there’d be civilians?

He scrambles to his feet and nearly rolls down the hill when he gets tangled up by his own legs. Shit. Clint’s only got a knife in his shoe and he’s about ninety percent sure it won’t kill the Soldier, but if anyone’s going to get assassinated it’s going to be him, so he hurries down to where the Soldier’s still fiddling.

The kid looks up at him, but the Soldier doesn’t.

Clint cringes as the Soldier holds out his hand to the kid, and then Clint looks at what’s actually _in_ his hand.

It’s a folded napkin butterfly. Not a weapon of mass destruction, not something that would harm the little girl standing in front of them in her bright yellow shorts. Clint’s got no idea where the napkin came from, but it’s a soft pastel blue and the child is immediately fascinated. The Soldier’s lips quirk up into a barely-noticeable smile as she takes it reverently and holds it up.

Shit, now Clint feels guilty.

The Soldier gets to his feet and Clint sidles close - not close enough to _touch_ , but close enough to talk without the little girl overhearing him. “What’s the problem with her?”

“Her ma wouldn’t get her an icecream,” comes the amused reply. “So she refused to go anywhere and now her brother’s watching her from behind that tree.”

Clint glances over at the line of trees and sure enough, there’s a teenager in a baseball cap and overalls pretending not to look at them. He looks back at the Soldier, who’s watching the kid play with the butterfly he’d made and that little smile is still there, and all of a sudden Clint’s ribs feel too small to contain his heart.

“We can’t get her any icecream,” Clint says. “Her mother’s laid down the law.”

“You’re tellin’ me that face doesn’t make you want to buy the whole damn cart?”

“Oh, it does,” Clint agrees. “But I’m weak. You should be better than that, with all your serious assassin training.”

He thinks he’s fucked up, there. Stupid Barton foot-in-mouth disease, brought to you by the man himself. Don’t mention the years of abuse at the hands of an evil former-Nazi organization to the Winter Soldier that’s lived through it, that should be obvious. Instead he gets a soft snort and then the Soldier starts gently directing the child towards her brother.

The Soldier doesn’t touch her, not even once as he carefully herds her back with a promise of a few more napkin butterflies, and Clint doesn’t have anything better to do than trail after them. He tries very hard not to smile, and he _doesn’t_ smile but it’s a close thing.

It’s unexpected, is what it is.

He had expected a lot of things out of finding the Winter Soldier. He hadn’t expected for a supposedly hundred year old assassin who could be an angel with over seventy years of merciless killing to be this remarkably _human_ when he was finally given free reign. It took Clint _centuries_ to get it right.

The most unexpected thing is that he _likes_ this man.

“I’m going to take this,” Clint tells the Soldier, waving his still-vibrating phone.

The Soldier doesn’t really take his eyes off of whatever’s playing on the hotel television - and hell, Clint’s enabled an addiction here, hasn’t he. He’s turned a notorious assassin into a Food Network-addicted couch potato. It doesn’t matter how soft and weirdly domestic the Soldier looks when he’s nestled in blankets at the foot of Clint’s bed.

Clint clicks the green button and raises it to his ear as he leaves the room. “What’s up?”

“I sent Sam to a bar in Lebanon,” Natasha says. “Steve’s practically clawing at the walls of the Tower and he wants to join him. I’m thinking of offering to come along.”

Clint starts wandering down the hallway aimlessly. “Steve’s not an idiot, Nat. He’s going to figure out that the Winter Soldier hasn’t been anywhere that you’ve sent Wilson to, and then he’s going to want to know why you’re misleading him.”

“He nearly _died_ the last time, Clint,” Natasha answers. “It’s for his own good.”

“I don’t see you being that worried about _me_. I’m a cute, muscled blond man too _and_ I’ve been around for longer than Steve Rogers has. I bet if I wore the cowl no one would be able to tell the difference.”

“You lack a certain charm that he possesses,” Natasha says dryly. “Also, common sense.”

“Bullshit,” Clint replies. “He jumped out of a plane without a parachute. He’s just as dumb as I am, and without the supernatural abilities.”

He stops at a well-stocked vending machine with a chocolate bar hanging off of one of the shelves. Natasha sighs on the other end of the line but she doesn’t argue with him because he’s _right_ , and Clint kicks at the machine in the hopes the chocolate will fall down. It doesn’t. He kicks it again. The chocolate doesn’t budge a single inch. He tries not to be too disappointed.

“I just want him to be happy,” Natasha says after a few minutes. “But I don’t think he can be happy until he finds answers, and I don’t have any answers for him.”

“Nat…”

Clint’s going to say it. The sensible thing to do is to tell his partner - the person he’s been with since the old days, his platonic soulmate who trusts him - that he’s been hanging out with the Winter Soldier. That they’ve been eating weird desserts and seeing even weirder tourist attractions together.

The sensible thing is to take what little information he has and pass it onto Natasha so she can figure out what to do next. She’s the planner out of the two of them, he’s just the guy with the bow. Clint doesn’t know what the Soldier is thinking, or what he’s going to do about Steve trying to hunt him down. Natasha would probably want him to keep the Soldier somewhere until she figures it out.

Clint doesn’t owe the Soldier anything.

Hell, he should probably be seeking revenge for the time Nat got shot by the man.

“Nat what,” Natasha says.

Clint kicks the vending machine again.

The chocolate falls down. “I just got free food,” he announces, instead of the other thoughts swirling around in his skull. “Also, I love you and you need to talk to Steve about your feelings, no matter how icky you think they are.”

“Shut up,” Natasha replies and then hangs up on him.

That was a _terrible_ idea. Why is he allowed to make his own decisions?

Clint stares at his blank phone screen for a few minutes. The background is a photo of him, Kate and Lucky. They’re covered in bandages and smirking into the camera, and Clint realizes vaguely that Kate is one of those rare good things that have come out of his bad decisions. Sometimes his stupid risks pay off.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Sorry,” Clint says, and he doesn’t sound sorry at all.

The Soldier regards him silently for a minute and then turns back to carefully unwrapping the Golden Gaytime he’s holding. Where the hell had he gotten one of those? Clint really needs to ask the Australians who names their icecream. He kind of wants one too, that chocolate bar had been subpar.

“Do you have more of those?” The Soldier reaches down the side of the bed and comes back with a brightly-coloured box and Clint sighs. “No, don’t give me food, I’ll get distracted.”

He puts the box back down. Clint considers just fleeing the country and leaving him to it. It’d be so easy. He could go to somewhere different, like Florida. No one would look for him in Florida. Clint refrains from sighing again, because he knows he’s not going anywhere.

“Look,” he says. “Why did you come here?”

“I wanted answers,” comes the reply. The Soldier looks briefly thoughtful once he’s said that, and then sets the icecream inside a mug he’s got on the bedside table. “I thought- I felt something when I saw you. I thought you could help.”

“Yeah,” Clint says.

“I don’t know,” the Soldier says. “I don’t know anything. Hydra made sure of that.”

Ouch. “Alright. That’s the- they did something to your mind, right?”

“I don’t know,” the Soldier repeats. He looks _lost_ , then, and Clint can’t even imagine what all this feels like to him. To not know anything about your own identity and be forced to trail around a stranger just because he might be _something_ like you. Clint personally finds him soft and gentle and oddly charming, but that doesn’t say anything about his identity. He’s just trying to find himself and whatever he is, he’s certainly not _bad_.

The Winter Soldier is a victim in Hydra’s scheme, and Clint’s got a bad idea.

“Do you trust me?” The Soldier blinks at him. “Right, yeah, I’m not going to push that on you, I’ll rephrase. Do you trust me to- what if I-” Rather than explain verbally - he’s not sure _how_ to explain, Clint points at his own forehead and then at the Soldier’s. “I could try? I’m not sure if it’ll work, though, and you shouldn’t have to deal with anyone in your brain except you so I’ll be as brief as possible - except you don’t even have to take me up on it, it’s totally your choice and I-”

“I want to do it,” the Soldier interrupts.

It’s the first time he’s voiced an opinion that firmly and Clint just stares at him for a few long seconds before he remembers how words work again. He wasn’t expecting such a direct answer. “You’re sure?”

“It’s my mind,” the Soldier says quietly. “I want to know.”

“Alright,” Clint says.

Oh god, now he’s actually got to do it. He hasn’t gotten this close to someone since _ever_ , really, not one-on-one. It’s been a long time. He’s never even gotten inside Natasha’s mind like this because they made sure to stay on the peripheries, just close enough to communicate and nothing else. This is something else entirely and he’s not sure how to do it.

“I need to touch you to do this,” Clint says, and scrunches up his face immediately after because that just sounds _wrong_.

The Soldier either doesn’t know how creepy the sentence is or he doesn’t care. Clint’s sitting against the headboard of the bed and he gets to watch as all the blankets are knocked aside, revealing the Soldier’s flannel shirt and hoodie underneath that. Clint still doesn’t get the layers, and he gets wearing boots on the bed even less, but he nearly swallows his tongue when the Soldier crawls up the bed and then straddles his thighs neatly.

It’s weird. It’s _not_ weird - this is the easiest way to touch comfortably without Clint having to move, Clint’s just _making_ it weird because he’s a mess in a human skin suit. The Soldier’s warm and heavy where he’s sitting and there’s no skin uncovered from the neck down, and ah, intimacy, his old enemy.

“Just smack my hands away if it starts feeling weird,” he says, and then lifts slightly-shaking hands to touch the Soldier’s face, closing his eyes so he can focus.

There’s no jolt this time, just a warm feeling that pools into his body and has him breathing steady even as he’s breaking down on the inside because there are _so many ways_ this could go wrong. He can feel the Soldier’s mind on the edges of his, not pushing, just waiting to see if he can do this.

 _Alright_ , Clint thinks, and pushes.

The first thing he notices is the snow.

The Soldier’s mind is remarkably blank. Clint still remembers how it felt before, and it’s meant to be _noisy_. It was crowded and messy and this is like being in a padded room in an asylum, there’s _nothing_. Clint didn’t like Hydra before, but he’s heading straight for downright _despising_ them if this is their doing.

He shouldn’t be able to see images this vividly in someone else’s mind though, he realizes, and then he’s standing in the middle of a storm with the ice and cold whipping around him. Clint looks down at his own scar-littered hands and flexes them gently. They’re almost translucent at the fingertips, the only sign that he’s somewhere he shouldn’t be.

Right. Okay. The Winter Soldier’s unconscious manifests as winter itself. He should’ve guessed that’d be the case. Clint cups his hands together and concentrates as hard as he can. A tiny yellow flame appears in his palm, flickering wildly, and he grimaces. Out of practice.

He sighs. He doesn’t actually know what he’s looking for here. It’s unlikely that there’ll be a nice big red button somewhere for him to press. Come to think of it, he probably shouldn’t touch it if there _is_ one, it might shut down the Soldier altogether, and that’s the opposite of what they want.

Instead he starts walking. There’s no landmarks and no indication of what direction he might be heading in, but he starts walking anyway. The wind is obnoxiously, _painfully_ loud in his ears and his hearing aids hurt even though he doesn’t need them here. Clint wants a proper, uninterrupted holiday one of these days.

He’s never going to get one, though, because he can’t mind his own damn business.

 _Might need some guidance here, pal_ , he thinks. He’s got no clue if the Soldier can hear him. _Can you give me a push or something in the right direction?_

There’s no visible answer, so he keeps moving. Or trying to move, anyway - it’s not like he’s actively crossing any sort of distance, and the landscape isn’t changing in the slightest. He can’t get lost in someone else’s head, can he?

Abruptly there’s a cracking noise and Clint’s standing in front of a chair that reminds him of the ones that are at the dentist’s. The dentists don’t have restraints like that though, and the energy crackling around it feels wrong.

 _Oh_.

That’s the big red button. Clint kicks at it and nothing happens. He lets the fire in his hands fizzle out and circles around the chair carefully. This isn’t the vending machine and he’s going to need a better strategy. Will killing it even _help_ or will it break the Soldier’s mind entirely?

Clint isn’t equipped for mental calibration. He’s good at hitting things and contained destruction, not fixing people. He doesn’t even know if the Soldier _is_ a person. Hydra could be setting a trap just to capture others to test on. Clint would be an idiot to fall for something like that.

He _is_ an idiot, though, and something in him is hopelessly soft for whatever the Soldier is.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks to himself, small and desperate. His bow appears in his hands with an explosive arrowhead already blinking red, and he takes a few steps back into the snowstorm. The wind whips around his ears painfully and he raises the bow, draws the arrow back and shoots the headrest of the seat.

He has a brief second where he’s worried explosives don’t work the same when you’re in someone’s subconscious and then there’s a _boom_ and everything goes black.

Clint’s vaguely aware of his own body again touching the Soldier, and there’s the soft background noise of the Soldier’s thoughts, although it’s still quiet. There’s thoughts here but they’re just killing protocols and mission codes, and Clint reaches out deeper until he finds a tiny glimmer of something in there.

Oh, god. He’s terrified of what’s going to happen here. What if he revives something that doesn’t want to be revived? What if whatever it is decides that he’s to be removed for his insolence like it was - no. He’s got to do it. He’s got to do it for the man making butterfly napkins for crying children, for the little shining hope that there’s more of that underneath the killing and emptiness.

He yanks at it _hard_ and there’s a presence, all of a sudden, colours and lights and memories - _Barnes, Sergeant, 32557038 - “How could I? You’re taking all the stupid with you-” “-he’s the best sniper we’ve got, you should see him-”_

Clint yanks his hands away with a gasp. He’s panting hard like he’s been running for miles, and there’s sweat dampening his shirt and sticking his hair to his face. He feels more exhausted than he does running a marathon. Fucking _hell_.

He can still feel a mind brushing against his but it’s _alive_ now, and it’s definitely not an angel.

"I'm still Bucky Barnes," he says, a little wondering as he looks down at his own hands. "I'm _me_."

Clint's overjoyed for him. He's so relieved that he can’t breathe properly. He's fucking devastated, he's feeling so _many_ conflicting emotions that all he can do is watch as Bucky's wings fan out across the room. It's subconscious, he thinks. His body knows how to do things that his human mind can't control. 

Bucky looks at him then, and he's beautiful and terrifying all at once. “You did this.”

“I’m sorry,” Clint says automatically.

“No,” Bucky says insistently, and then _he’s_ touching _Clint_ , mismatched fingers reaching up to press against his jaw gently. It’s warm, and now Clint can feel the buzz of his mind, the choking relief and swarm of happiness. “No, don’t be sorry, I was - it was fucking _awful_ not knowing, hoping that I was more than just a killing machine but never being _sure_ and I just-”

“I’m glad,” Clint tries, awkward and stilted.

“Thank you,” Bucky breathes, and then in an absolutely bewildering turn of events he’s leaning in to press their mouths together.

Clint’s brain screeches to an embarrassing halt but his _body_ is very actively interested in the gentle, firm contact and the warm bubbles of affection and gratitude coming from every point of skin-on-skin contact with Bucky. He’s not sure if he blanks out or if the kiss only lasts a few seconds, but Bucky leans back and at licks at his bottom lip absently, and that’s not _fair_.

“You’re welcome,” Clint says weakly.

“I can remember it all,” Bucky says. “Every single minute.”

He doesn’t give a reason for the kiss - doesn’t even act like he’d done it in the first place. Hell, maybe Clint had hallucinated it. He usually imagines bad things though, and that was distinctly _not_ bad. It might’ve even been _good_ , he’s not entirely sure. He might be in shock. His mouth is still tingling a little.

Best not to question it, maybe.

“Cool beans. So, the angel,” Clint says, can’t quite finish the sentence. _Cool Beans_. What the fuck is wrong with him. One moderately (extremely) hot man kisses him and his brain cells scatter on the shitty hotel carpet, never to be found again. He should be more worried about what’s going on with the stuff Hydra’s been doing.

"It’s gone," Bucky answers regretfully. ”They tested it and they took its powers for themselves, and then they ripped it out of me and killed it.”

That’s - _horrifying_ , really, but Clint can’t deny he’s a little relieved by it. Fuck, there really is something wrong with him. Bucky’s got that thousand-mile stare that he’d had permanently as the Soldier on his face, and Clint guesses he’s probably remembering it. He can’t imagine what it’d feel like, sharing your body with something else and then feeling it being torn away and murdered.

Clint feels a little nauseous thinking about it and he’s briefly glad that he doesn’t have a roommate in this body. “What now?”

“I just got about a hundred years of memories back. I need alcohol,” Bucky says decisively, and there’s already a massive change in the way he’s holding himself as he stands up, wings dissolving into nothingness. “You comin’?”

“Do you even know where the bottleshop is?”

“Nope,” Bucky replies. He looks briefly uncertain, and then tilts his head at Clint with one of those faint smiles. “Guess you’ll have to help me with that too, huh. Maybe you can tell me what else I can do with… all of this.”

Clint is not fit to be anyone’s advice-giver. He’s not even fit to look after himself, especially not when it comes to _that_ in particular. He’s possibly the worst person Bucky could ever ask for this, for _any_ of it, and yet he’s still going to say yes because he’s an idiot.

Also, that kiss had been _something_.

“You’re buying me the most expensive tequila that Australian money can buy,” he warns.

"Okay," Bucky says, and that's that. 

**Author's Note:**

> winterhawk bingo square: angels/demons au  
> Title Lyrics: [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vhMIvsMK858)
> 
> Yes, there's a part two.


End file.
